To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die
by stuttering-duckling
Summary: Post-Reichenbach oneshot. John hits rock bottom. Will Sherlock be there to save him? Slash if you want it to be. [Trigger Warning: Suicide] (MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH)


The silence in the dust-covered flat at 221B Baker Street was so thick you could almost touch it with your bare hands. The only sound heard was the faint ticking of a clock.  
John sat in his usual armchair by the fireplace, counting every second. Two years, seventy-three days, five hours and six minutes after the fall, he had finally hit rock bottom. Up until now, he'd somehow convinced himself that there was a possibility that Sherlock would come back. But now he realized that however much he wished, the armchair opposite of him would remain empty.

He would never again come home and find his flatmate's coat and scarf on the coat hanger by the door. He would never again walk into the kitchen and find the dining table covered with science equipment and God knows what chemicals. He would never again open the fridge and find severed limbs lying next to the milk as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And that realisation was too much for John to handle.

While Sherlock was still alive, John constantly bugged him about his abnormal, morbid experiments, his eating and sleeping habits and how he was pretty much incapable of human emotions. After the fall, John realised that those were the things that made Sherlock unique. That made him Sherlock, the greatest man and most human human being he'd ever known.

And John remembered.  
The first time they met and Sherlock figured out his entire life story by simply looking at him.  
All the cases they solved together. Everything they had been through. All the girlfriends Sherlock scared away. All the times Sherlock called him an idiot.

And John regretted.  
The times when he was mad at Sherlock for no particular reason. That he never realised that Sherlock in fact wasn't incapable of emotions, that he could feel hurt just like everyone else.  
John also regretted that he never told him that if it wasn't for him, John probably wouldn't be alive by now. Sherlock saved him, and he never even thanked him. The thought of that hurt a lot.  
But not as much as the fact that John never told him how much he really loved him.  
When he realised, it was too late. Sherlock was gone and nothing in the world could change that.  
And that hurt.

When he sat in his armchair, listening to the ticking clock as the sky slowly turned from a velvety deep blue to pitch black, he caught himself thinking about something that kept creeping into his mind more and more often lately. Just five little words.  
_I can't do this anymore.  
_  
Those words had been repeating themselves in his head for a long time, but John didn't know what they truly meant until now.  
John had thought about ending his life more than once, but always changed his mind when he sat there with his gun pointed to his head, a split second from pulling the trigger. The last time, he had even written a note and put it on the table next to him. But he ended up burning the note under the kitchen fan while thinking about what people said about suicide.  
They spoke of it as if it was something wrong, something shameful. Only cowards committed suicide.  
And John wasn't a coward, was he?

But this time, it was different. After suffering for more than two years, and never once feeling truly happy during that time, he was prepared to do anything to be free from the pain. Lately, his life had been like walking down a dead-end street. He knew what awaited him at the end.  
He was there now, and there was only one way out.

Everyone else seemed to move on. Even Mrs. Hudson got over Sherlock's death quickly enough.  
But John didn't. He didn't want to, either. Besides, even if he wanted to move on, he simply couldn't. It was too much.

Later that night, John sat in his chair again. Everything was the same as it had been a couple of hours earlier, apart from the fact that he now had a gun in his hand. This scenario was all too familiar. Two years, seventy-three days, eight hours and forty-two minutes after the fall, he was falling apart. As he felt the weight of the gun in his hand, he knew that this time it was for real. He really was going to end his life.

After finally accepting that his best friend wasn't coming back, John couldn't find a single reason to stay alive. A life without Sherlock was impossibly hopeless and painful, and the mere thought of having to endure it any longer made John feel like he was going to explode.  
With a slightly trembling hand, he lifted the gun to his head and pointed it at his temple. There was no turning back now.  
As he put a finger on the trigger, he looked around the flat for the last time.

This place, and the person that used to live here, had made him alive again. This was the place where his life finally began for real. And soon, it would be the place where he died. It was quite nice in a way, to die in a place you know you belong in.  
John saw the patterned wallpaper with the bullet-riddled smiley face on it. He saw the skull resting on the mantelpiece. He saw Sherlock's riding crop sitting in a corner. He saw the table in the kitchen, stained from countless eccentric experiments. The amount of memories he shared with Sherlock was overwhelming. And it stung, just like disinfecting an open wound.  
John ran a hand through his hair to collect himself a bit and then took a slightly shaky, but deep breath.  
_  
I'm coming, Sherlock_, he whispered.

That was the last thing John Watson said before pulling the trigger.  
Blood splattered onto the wooden floor. The gun fell out of his hand and landed with a loud thud. John fell, too.  
Everything went black.

And then?  
Bliss. Pure bliss.

John didn't feel any pain. He was going to reunite with Sherlock. He finally had a chance to say all the things that needed to be said. All the things he wanted to say but never did.  
And for the first time in two years, seventy-three days, nine hours and four minutes, John was happy.

But there was something John didn't know. John had no idea that at the same time as he pulled the trigger, a man was walking up the stairs right outside the door.

When the man heard the gun being fired, he froze in the middle of a step. The man was Sherlock Holmes, who in fact was very much alive.  
Sherlock remembered that time when he shot the wall in this flat out of boredom. But that's not something John would ever do. So why did…? Wait. No. He couldn't have… could he?  
A look of utter terror came upon his face. Sherlock ran up the last few steps and jerked the door open so violently it almost flew off its hinges.  
"John!" he shouted, but went quiet when he saw his best friend's limp body on the blood-splattered floor by the fireplace. His heart sank in his chest. _No. This is not happening. It can't be._  
He hurried over to his friend and kneeled in front of him.  
_Please, John, tell me this isn't happening._  
"John", he repeated. "Answer me." No answer. Obviously.  
_No. No. Please. Don't. This can't be true._

His beloved blogger and moral barometer was dead. Sherlock couldn't understand, didn't want to understand. _But why?_  
Things got worse when he noticed something white, a piece of paper, in the chest pocket of John's shirt.  
_Close to the heart_. The paper slip only had three words on it, but when he read them it dawned on him. It was his fault that John killed himself.  
_I'm coming, Sherlock_, the note said.  
Sherlock Holmes, the machine with hardly any emotions whatsoever, had a complete meltdown when he read those words.  
This was the only time he'd ever allowed himself to lose control completely. Now he understood what Mycroft meant when he stated that caring wasn't an advantage.  
Who knew caring _hurt_ so much?

Sherlock fell to the floor, tears streaming down his face. His chest felt like it was going to rip open with each sob. It was his fault that John had committed suicide. It was all his fault.  
If only he had returned sooner. If only he'd gotten the chance to tell John that he had to fake his death because of Moriarty. He had to do it to protect John. And John would never know. It was too late. And Sherlock hated himself because of that.

Getting shot was to prefer over this. The fact that his best friend was dead because of him.  
The emotional pain was so intense it made his whole body ache.  
Sherlock sat down, red-eyed and breathing shakily, waiting for the pain to subside. But it never did. It almost felt as if it got worse.  
He heard the sound of a ticking clock. The sound of time passing. Each tick was another second without John.  
And it was unbearable.  
The last two years had been horrible because John wasn't by his side. The only thing that had kept him going was the fact that he soon would be able to return to Baker Street. To John.  
And now it was too late. Sherlock was never going to see him again. As he realised that, he bit down hard on his wrist to prevent himself from screaming.  
In that moment, only one thing felt truly right.

Sherlock lay down on the floor, pulling John as close to him as humanly possible. One arm around the doctor's shoulders, the other one holding the gun tightly.  
He felt oddly… calm. In a moment, he would be back with his beloved blogger again, and that fact almost made him want to smile.  
Sherlock ran his hand through John's soft, sand-coloured hair. He knew he had to do this.  
"I'll see you soon", he whispered as he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.  
The sound of the gun echoed in the empty flat. More crimson drops landed on the already stained wooden floor.  
Both Sherlock and John were someplace else now. The sleuth and his doctor were finally at peace.

And that's how the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson came to an end.  
All lives end, all hearts are broken.  
Caring is not an advantage, but if it makes it possible for you to die in the arms of the one person who loves you the most, it might be worth it.


End file.
